


Missing Stops (With You)

by AkumaStrife



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel meets Feuilly's exhaustion before meeting him. (Prompt: Person A accidentally falls asleep on Person B on the subway/metro)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Stops (With You)

**Author's Note:**

> I WILL FILL THIS SHIP TAG ALL BY MYSELF IF I HAVE TO

The old lady knitting across from him is the third to smile, with a soft little sigh as if nostalgic. The train lurches to stop and, despite everything, Bahorel tries to minimize as much jostling as possible. 

The woman gathers her things and shuffles toward the open doors, patting his cheek as she goes. “You’re such a sweet young man,” she says, taking care to keep her voice low. He’s surprised she hasn’t offered him candy out of her purse, like the first one. He just smiles at her politely and ducks his head. He’s too drunk for this. Sort of. There’s been plenty of time to sober up. 

He shifts, trying to get more comfortable, and peeks down at the freckled young man sleeping against his shoulder. Maybe if he fidgets enough, Freckles would wake up on his own. He shifts again, sitting up straighter, but that just has Freckles sliding down with his face pillowed against Bahorel’s collarbone.  

Bahorel sighs and pulls out his phone, snapping a picture with the two of them. Freckles drooling slightly; him pouting into the camera. It gets sent with the caption _‘Found: comatose ginger. Send help.’_

The responses are cut down the middle, half being congratulations and the other mocking. His friends are assholes. But he is too, so he supposes it all works out. 

The car is mostly empty now, with how late it is. He looks up and checks the schedule. He’s missed so many stops he’s nearly back where he started. Great. At least he has an excuse to sleep through his exam tomorrow. 

The man passed out on him mumbles something nearly inaudible, and nuzzles in closer. Bahorel can’t help grinning, because it _is_ kind of adorable. He doesn’t have the heart to wake the guy up. He’d looked so tired when he’d shuffled into the seat next to him. 

“I’ve sat here this long,” Bahorel mutters to himself. He slings an arm up along the back of the seat and around the man’s shoulders, and scoots down to lean his head back against the window. 

Of course that’s when the man wakes in a panic and shoots upright, accidentally slamming up into Bahorel’s chin. 

“Fuckin' hell,” Bahorel hisses, holding his jaw gingerly, swallowing the blood trickling from where he’d bitten his tongue. 

“Who are you?” Freckles demands, hands tightening around his bag.

“Bahorel, pillow extraordinaire,” he says, grinning, and offers his free hand. 

Freckles blinks at him, the gears in his head visibly turning. He looks at his outstretched hand and then down at the damp collar of Bahorel’s v-neck. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—“ he swivels around and looks up at the map. “And I’ve missed my stop. Shit!” 

“Missed mine too,” Bahorel grumbles. “Many times over.” 

A blush climbs the other man’s face and he winces. “I’m sorry. I have another shift soon, I have to go,” he says as he clambers to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and darting out the open doors. 

Bahorel sits in silence for a moment, unsure if he’s more disappointed or insulted. Disappointment is winning when the doors begin to close and Freckles slides between them again, panting and dropping into the seat next to him again. 

Bahorel beams. “Welcome back.”

“This is… way off where I thought I was.” He shoves his bag between his knees and then rubs his face, covering a yawn. “My name’s Feuilly. And I’m gonna be late.”

“You can always call in sick. I happen to be a very excellent pillow, in every terrain. I’ve been known to be called Nyquil, too, if you need an alibi.” He waits for Feuilly to look up at him before waggling his eyebrows. He gets a punch to the shoulder for it, but miraculously Feuilly looks like he’s considering it. 

Feuilly peers at him. “How long did you let me sleep on you?”

Bahorel checks his phone, ignores the jeering texts from his friends. “Forty-five minutes?”

“But why?” Feuilly blurts.

“You looked like you needed the sleep; I don’t have anywhere to be. Why not? I even got some candy out of the deal.” He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handful of butterscotch candies. “We’re very popular with nice old ladies. What they’re doing out after midnight, I have no idea. Probably something sinister.”

Feuilly takes one, smiling slowly as he unwraps it. “I should get going. The trains are going to stop running soon.”

“Good idea, I’ll walk you.”

“What?” 

Bahorel stands with him when the train stops. Without thinking he grabs Feuilly’s elbow to steady him. “I still haven’t gotten your number.” 

“You haven’t actually asked,” Feuilly points out, but waits for Bahorel to jump onto the platform, letting him keep pace. 

“I haven’t?” Bahorel hums and rubs his chin. “Well, after all that drooling and head butting me I kinda figured it was a given.”

Feuilly blushes and frowns at him. “I said I was sorry! And it was your own fault. You didn’t have to… let me…”

“I wanted to.” He shrugs. 

“You _do_ make a pretty decent pillow,” Feuilly concedes. He kicks a rock up the sidewalk and Bahorel kicks it next.

“Decent?” And then louder, “Decent! Unbelievable! That’s the last time I offer my shoulder to cute ginger boys on the metro. I feel so _used._ ”

“Shut up,” Feuilly hisses. He tries to shush him between his own laughter, hands waving over Bahorel’s mouth. “You’ll wake up the entire street!”

“Will you give me your number?”

“Will that shut you up?”

“For now.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes, but stops in front of a dingy twenty-four hour dinner. He pulls a pen out his bag and scrawls his number on the backside of Bahorel’s wrist. “I’ll buy you coffee or something, for letting me drool on you.”

“You can nap on me anytime, gingersnap.”

Feuilly punches his shoulder again, but his face looks flushed under the fluorescent yellow light of the sign. “This is my stop, thanks again.” 

Bahorel opens the door for him automatically. “Have a good shift. Don’t pour hot coffee on any assholes." 

“It’s a struggle,” Feuilly says, with a sigh that sounds too real under his forced mockery. He lingers for a moment, mouth open as if he has something more to say. But then just turns and hurries inside. 

Bahorel lets the door swing close after him. He enters Feuilly’s number into his phone as he ambles down the dark street, and texts him eight sunglasses emoji’s in a row. 


End file.
